Chapter Twelve
She’s home! My girl is back home for an entire week!
I’ve spent most of the past few days shopping for ingredients to make her favourite meals, cooking up batches of flapjacks and muffins, washing her bedding, cleaning the house, and generally making everywhere feel as welcoming as I possibly can for her return.
I’ve even bought a new desk lamp (with money we don’t really have, but it was on Facebook Marketplace) and set up a small workstation in case she wants to do her subject reading in the kitchen with me.
Speaking of Facebook, whilst purchasing the desk lamp I also noticed that I’ve been invited to be ‘friends’ with some of the golf wives.
The invitations lighting up my notification board include ones from Carol, Tiggy and Felicity (the lady in the floral dress with empathy issues) as well as a couple of the quieter wives and girlfriends who appear to follow the lead of this holy triumvirate.
Struggling to think of a reason to say no (and wondering whether it might be useful to know their movements so I could avoid potential future encounters) I agreed to these friend requests and am now completely up to date with what happened to Felicity’s missing wheelie bin, how hard it was for her to get a doctor’s appointment for her fungal nail infection, and her ongoing dispute with the neighbour whose enormous dog keeps fouling their driveway (today’s photo of Felicity, red-faced in linen slacks holding a large garden spade laden with turds was enough to make me snort out my mouthful of coffee).
As if this weren’t enough excitement to contend with, I have also been fortunate to witness an abundance of photographic evidence of Tiggy’s recent trip to Oxford with son Reuben and husband John.
At least, I assume John went too, even though he is not featured in a single photo.
There are an inordinate number of photos of Tiggy leaning wistfully against honey-coloured mullioned windows, Tiggy seated on stone benches, notebook in hand and pencil held thoughtfully to her lips, Tiggy shouting encouragement to a group of bemused rowers on the Isis, and Tiggy listening intently to a man wearing some sort of formal gown (who appears on closer inspection to be giving her directions rather than imparting pearls of academic wisdom).
There are a couple of photos of a surly looking teenage boy, who I assume is Reuben, standing awkwardly beside manicured lawns and looming gothic towers with captions that included #OxfordBlue #CollegeLife #OxfordBoys #SoBlessed and AIBU to feel like a terribly proud mumma today?
(Smiley blushing emoji). Frankly, it was worth friending the woman just to be able to laugh uproariously at the showing off, and I spent most of Wednesday morning doing just this.
Really do need to get an actual job, if only to save me from disappearing down the rabbit hole of Tiggy’s ludicrous online life.
Luckily there has been some movement in that quarter.
Following a shortlisting process that I later found out consisted of one applicant (me), I had an interview at the city library earlier this week.
Bizarrely, David, the kind man who had helped me recapture Orinoco on Briar’s Hill, was on the panel.
I don’t know whether this was a help or hindrance in terms of securing the job because it’s difficult to gain an edge on the competition when there is no competition, but seemingly I managed not to arse the entire thing up and they offered me the job.
The head of county library services explained that the previous library assistant, Jasmine, had resigned due to stress and anxiety, and had been unable to work her notice period, hence the swift recruitment process and the need for someone to start as soon as possible.
I managed to negotiate a start date after Layla’s reading week with a bit of stammering and stuttering – I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t keen but there was no way I was missing spending time with my daughter.
I haven’t yet decided what to do about Christmas.
I expect they’ll be reluctant to let me have four weeks off for her holiday, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Maybe I’ll hate the job and want to leave by then anyway.
The good news is that I have Tuesdays off so I can go to the spa with Mum.
The bad news is that I’ll probably spend the entire spa day having to listen to lurid details of her romantic liaisons and no amount of hot stone massage is going to take away some of those thoughts and images once they’re in my head.
But before the spa and before the new job starts there is the luxurious prospect of a whole week with Layla and honestly, I couldn’t be more excited.
Joe, I think, feels the same, although he hasn’t freed up his diary to quite the degree that I have.
He’s still planning on heading over to the golf club to play a few rounds on Sunday – a concept I can’t really get my head around.
When he told me I said, ‘But Layla’s home on Saturday,’ expecting him to have got his dates wrong, but he just said, ‘I know. I’m coming with you to collect her from the station.
’ And when I looked incredulous, he said, ‘She won’t want me there the whole time just sitting staring at her.
She’ll want things to be normal. I’ll be back in time for dinner.
It’s literally just a few rounds with Steve. ’
I mean, I’m not planning on sitting staring at my daughter either, at least not the entire week, but I do want to absorb every moment of every day she’s home, just to be able to hold onto the memories when she leaves and sustain myself until Christmas.
And I’m still not completely convinced that she should be going back to university at all.
I want to be present at all times during this reading week just in case she feels the need to unburden herself of her doubts and share them with an impartial (okay, not that impartial) adult.
Saturday morning dawned bright and crisp, late autumn sun pouring through recently cleaned windows into a spotless kitchen.
Clarence and Margaret were curled up in Layla’s room as if they too had got the memo about making the house as welcoming and homely as possible.
Although, it was probably because the bedding was pristine and the carpet had been hoovered to within an inch of its life that they felt duty bound to cover both with as much cat hair as possible in the time available.
The pair had just about forgiven me for inviting a dog into the house two weeks ago, which was no small miracle given that Orinoco had chased Clarence up a tree the morning he was collected and it had taken me an hour balanced precariously on a stepladder with a tin of tuna to coax him down.
If it had been Margaret she would probably still be up there, building a new life for herself amidst the swaying branches and nesting birds just to spite me, but Clarence had returned to my lap with shameless purring as soon as he realised the dog had gone and the coast was clear.
Joe and I drove to the station with me in a state of near manic excitement.
I tried to play it cool when Layla’s train was announced over the tannoy (they didn’t announce it as Layla’s train, obviously, although they should have) but when we saw her wheeling her bag around the corner of the sliding doors I almost vaulted the ticket barrier to reach her.
And by the time she’d wrestled her luggage through the barrier I was hopping from foot to foot and grinning like a Nineties raver on acid.
‘How are you? How are you? How was the journey? Any problems? Have you eaten? Do you want something from the shop now or can you wait until we get home?’ It all came out in a barrage of questions poured into her ear as I hugged her tight.
Joe took her bags, and we all walked back to the car, Joe and I beaming as widely as the day we’d left the hospital with our tiny baby bundle almost nineteen years ago.
‘So, you’re very honoured,’ I said, once we’d pulled out of the car park. ‘Granmerry is coming to see you tomorrow – she’s managed to find a space in her busy schedule to see her only granddaughter.’
‘Excellent,’ said Layla from the backseat. ‘How is she?’
‘Oh, you know – same as always,’ I said.
‘Both flighty and fearsome in equal measure. I struggle to keep track of who she’s seeing but I think Maurice is old news – his angina has become too debilitating to keep up with her hectic schedule and he’s moved down to Devon to be with his daughter.
There are tentative plans to attempt a trip to Marrakesh when he’s more stable on his medication, but I don’t think either of their hearts are really in it. If you’ll pardon the pun.’
‘That’s quite funny,’ Joe chuckled to himself. ‘Heart’s not in it – with his angina and everything…’
‘Yes, thanks darling.’ I caught Layla’s eye in the rear-view mirror, and we shared an indulgent smile. It was just like old times.
‘And then recently she’s been seeing this other chap,’ I continued. ‘Robert. He’s a retired plastic surgeon. Likes the opera.’
‘Oh, he’s the one she was going out with the week before I left,’ Layla said. ‘When we met up with Uncle Rich?’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘So, it’s a while they’ve been together. Quite the long-term relationship.’
‘Well, only six weeks,’ said Joe. ‘Layla’s been at university just over a month.’
‘God, it feels like much longer,’ said Layla quietly from the back seat. I couldn’t tell whether she sounded sad or happy about it. Or maybe just completely neutral and simply stating a fact – it really did feel like much longer than that.
There was silence for a few moments as we all contemplated the flexible notion of time passing and the infinite fluctuations of the space-time continuum – I say all of us, likely Joe was still trying to come up with something to rival my cardiac pun.
‘The cats have missed you,’ I said. ‘Clarence keeps coughing up hairballs ever since Orinoco chased him up that tree, and Margaret just walks past the leg of the kitchen table that he chewed and looks at it pointedly like she’s saying, ‘There, see? That’s what you get for allowing him into our territory.
’ I’ve got to take them both to the vets this week for a routine check-up.
I thought you might like to come with me, unless you’re busy studying the…
’ I looked back over my shoulder to ask her exactly what she was supposed to be reading for her course and saw instead that Layla had fallen asleep, lulled by the engine noise as she had been as an infant.
Joe saw my expression and craned his neck to peer into the lower half of the rear-view mirror.
‘She asleep?’ he whispered to me. ‘I can’t see.’
I nodded and we both sat back in our seats with smiles of contentment on our faces, our child peacefully restored to her rightful place.
I had thought I was fully prepared for the laundry explosion that followed and had bought additional powder and fabric conditioner with the intention of washing every stitch of clothing Layla brought back.
Even so, I was still a little surprised that she had managed to cram so much into her rucksack – and that some of it was so filthy.
‘Not entirely sure how she even managed to carry this onto the train,’ I muttered to myself, hefting her bag into our small utility room where it spilled its contents unceremoniously onto the floor.
I started to pick through the familiar items, sorting them into coloureds and whites, not that there was much white to be seen.
‘I’ve made lasagne for lunch,’ I shouted up the stairs.
‘If you’re hungry. Don’t worry if you’re not, I can just do you a sandwich and then we’ll have the lasagne tonight.
I made a chocolate torte for pudding.’ I smiled as I flung a pair of purple knickers into the drum of the washing machine.
Lasagne and chocolate torte were two of Layla’s favourites.
‘What was that, Mum?’ Layla appeared in the doorway looking tired. ‘Don’t worry about food for me – I’m meeting up with Ella tonight. She’s back from Manchester. I’ll probably stay over at hers, if that’s okay?’
‘Stay at Ella’s…?’ I trailed off and then snapped to my senses, forcing my voice into over-bright compensatory mode. ‘Yes, of course! Absolutely! Send her my love, won’t you.’
‘Is it okay if I borrow the car?’
‘Uhm – yes, I don’t see why not,’ I said, an inane grin still plastered onto my face. ‘Your father will be out playing golf tomorrow so he’ll need his car but yes you can take mine. You’ll probably be back before he leaves?’
‘Uhm, yeah, maybe. I don’t know about tomorrow. Ella was talking about trying to catch up with some of the others…’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Are you sure it’s okay, Mum?’
‘Yeeeesss!’ I said, breezy as a cloud. ‘Of course! Now, do you want to hop in the bath before you go out? I got the special Neom scented stuff. It’s on the shelf in the…’
‘Actually, I think it gave me a rash last time,’ she said. ‘But that’s a good idea. I’ve only been able to have showers while I’ve been away.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said, smiling to myself about the fact that I appeared to have got at least one thing right.
It didn’t matter that Layla was out tonight or even most of tomorrow.
She’d be here all week. We’d be able to do all the fun things I’d planned; I could take her shopping – even though money was tight – and we could eat at our usual pizza place afterwards.
I’d booked us tickets to watch the sequel to one of our favourite films at the cinema mid-week, and there was the trip to the vets on Tuesday, which didn’t sound very exciting but the clinic was next to a huge animal sanctuary and we always enjoyed seeing the goats and donkeys, and stopping for a hot chocolate in their cafe afterwards.
I’d also booked her into the hair salon on Thursday for a trim followed by a manicure with the beautician who worked next door. It was going to be such a nice week – plenty of time for her to study but broken up with lovely treats we could do together. I was really looking forward to it.